Conversation Partners
by Piru-tan
Summary: Mal tries to woo Inara using the art of conversation. Mal x Inara, PG13.


**Title:** Conversation Partners  
**Fandom:**_ Firefly/Serenity_  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s):** Mal/Inara, brief appearances by Kaylee, Zoe, Jayne  
**Dedication:** WillowKat, for Serenity Santa 2007 -- apologies for the delay!  
**Prompt:** The request was for a fic using one of the 'canon'/'regular' pairings.  
**Description:** Mal tries to woo Inara using the art of conversation.  
**Rating:** PG-13 for references to prostitution, sexual tension, and swearing in Chinese  
**Word Count:** 3,153  
**Status:** Complete, with brief editing.  
**Other Notes:** I've never been able to write in any 'real' people fandoms; that is, movies and TV shows with real (human) actors, and of course, no RPF. When I finally saw _Firefly_, I figured it might be the one exception, and I decided to participate in Serenity Santa to find out. Since I managed to finish this fic, I guess you could say that I succeeded, but it wasn't easy. This fic was also way overdue because real life intervened. I got a good start, but as things surrounding my vacation got complicated and mildly stressful, I kept hitting roadblocks. I finally put the wraps on it today, because it's already a month since Christmas and I was determined to finish it. As far as the end result goes, I'm not too unhappy, although I realize that my basic plot premise is probably vastly unoriginal. (I don't really know because I've never read any _Firefly_ fanfiction.) That said, hopefully my take on it is still somewhat unique.

* * *

A Companion, she had always been taught, should not indulge in her own fantasies.

Yet despite these mantras implanted firmly in her still-youthful mind, she cannot help picturing herself washing his feet, likely to be more rough with callouses and hairy than she is used to. She will bathe them in warm water to remove the dirt, then slowly roll up the legs of his corduroy pants. Precious oils and salves she will use to relax his sore muscles and heal his skin. She imagines finding a scar, and he will tell her the story of how it came to be, his voice a mixture of pride at his own vitality and resourcefulness as well as disappointment in himself for the failure he perceives in allowing himself—like anybody else he swore to protect—to get hurt. She will listen attentively, properly, like the trained Companion she is, smiling encouragingly (yet not condescendingly—never that with him) while she dries his feet with a soft cloth.

She will serve him more wine then, pay him a few compliments while she helps him take off his shirt. He will resist a little—because he is well aware that his naked chest will remind her that he is no longer quite so young, no longer the virile young man he desires himself to be in order to woo her in the manner he deems appropriate for such a passionate conquest. But it is not his chest she longs to see. Secretly, she has always coveted the sight of his back.

How she longs to run her hands over its firm expanse. The muscles, which are not those of a golden youth in his prime but have aged and hardened from maturity and experience, those muscles—she will massage them, relax them, revive them. The back that has carried the burdens of leading and protecting an entire ship, the back that on numerous occasions stooped to save her own life—it will be all she can do not to cover it in kisses. Warm oils and the sensuous touch of her fingertips will have to do. By stimulating the blood flow, she hopes she can make her admiration and passion clear.

And just when he is ready to melt in her hands, when the relaxing scent of the oils mixed with the burning of incense will have him lazily sinking into her touch, eyes closed, she will take those same hands and gently massage his temples, his forehead. The frown lines will dissipate, while the hint of a smile lingers. She will kiss him then, softly, tentatively, and he will act like he was expecting it all along, but it will be clear to her that it was her initiative, not his.

After that, it will be up to him. She will offer him nothing, yet he will take everything. She is his conquest, after all, and a hard-earned one at that. But she enjoys the struggle as much as the moments of tenderness, the possibilities of intimacy, and she will do everything to make him fight once more for what he should by now know is already rightfully his. A Companion's heart is not hers to give, but he had stolen it nonetheless.

A thief, he is, and always will be—quite a change from the princes and senators and rich merchant sons who have made up her usual clientele over the years. But she has learned by now that nothing can persuade Mal Reynolds to settle down and live an honest life—and when it comes down to it, perhaps she doesn't want him to. Perhaps it is his recklessness, as much as his resourcefulness, that attracts her to him. His temerity, his dominating will to live, and his boundless passion.

She smiles to herself knowingly as she finishes braiding her hair. Staring at her own reflection in the mirror, she wonders briefly if he would like it better if she had left it down, and can't believe she never took the time to try to find out.

She will have to ask Kaylee later.

* * *

But things with Mal Reynolds never go exactly as planned.

For starters, he comes in wearing his normal clothes, including his old leather boots, which are caked with mud and probably dirtier things. When little bits of it land on her carpet, it takes every effort of her will not to snap at him to leave his boots at the door. After all, she reminds herself, he comes to her today not as her landlord. Still her captain. Ever her hero. But not her landlord, not today.

Today, he comes to her as her customer.

Yet Mal himself does not act any differently from his usual self. He still walks into the shuttle as though assessing what she has done to _his_ vessel. He appraises the tapestries and the religious ornaments as though he had hired a new decorator without consulting her as to the changes she intended to make to his domain. The only thing he did not regard with an obvious air of ownership was she herself—when, in fact, ironically, she is currently the only thing he can rightfully consider his possession.

"So," he finally asks as he seats himself on one of the low sofas, "how do we proceed?"

"Well," she replies, slowly, measuring the meaning behind his words, "surely, when you initiated this transaction, you had some idea as to your own intentions with this encounter."

Mal grins rather sarcastically. "You're the one who most often accuses me of not thinkin' through my actions."

Inara deftly counters by saying, "When large sums of money are involved, particularly when you're not on the receiving end, I think you know exactly what you're doing."

"You're right," he admits, too quickly, and the agreeableness of the statement makes her suspicious. "But surely, the sum I offered for your company is far less than that which you usually receive for your services."

He is right, but she intends to ignore the implications. "A Companion chooses her own partners. This means that it is not always a matter of who is the highest bidder."

"Well, I'm sure you didn't choose me for my sparklin' wit," Mal responds with a jovial air that does not at all sound humble. "Still, I wouldn't dare to give you any less than you deserve. The sum I'm payin' you should be sufficient for no more 'n no less than a good conversation."

Inara breathes in, breathes out, and swallows once; it is not common for Mal to catch her completely off-guard like this. "Conversation?"

"Nothin' wrong with that, is there? Ages ago, on Earth-That-Was, men wooed women usin' nothin' but the power of words," Mal remarks, and it's difficult to miss the faint air of condescension in his speech.

Inara is still trying to gauge whether the captain is jesting or serious. "But regardless of how much or how little you are paying, the fact of the matter is that you have me here. I chose you. You are therefore allowed to have anything you desire of me."

"But like I just told you, I'd be ashamed to ask you for more than I reasonably deserve. I have an inklin' how high the goin' rate is for a Companion of your status, and it is far more than I offered to pay. That's why I'm imposin' a limit myself," he explains in a more grave tone.

Inara doesn't know how to respond. Her words are caught in her throat, as she tries to figure out whether he is toying with her or not. Since it's Mal she's dealing with, there's still a chance that this is all a rather elaborate prank. But the serious set to his jaw and his unblinking eyes tell her that there's a good chance that it's not.

"So," Mal continues, smiling again, "let's talk."

She can't help but feel offended, then, like he is deliberately trying to stab at her pride by deviating from all her expectations. Irritation becomes anger, and anger manifests itself as the usual veil of arrogance she wears in her day-to-day interactions with him.

Rolling her eyes and making no effort to disguise the haughty tone that's invaded her voice, she asks, "What do _we_ have to talk about? You don't honestly expect us to sit here sipping wine sharing war stories? Comparing battle scars?"

"That doesn't sound so bad." When Inara shoots him a Look, he interjects, "It was a joke! In all seriousness, I think you'll find that there's more to me than just the war."

Inara crosses her arms and shifts her weight back on her other foot. "So, what then? Politics? 'Tell me, Mr. Renynolds, what's your view of the most recent set of intergalactic trade laws passed by the Alliance?'"

"I ain't got a goddamn clue," Mal admits. "No, no politics. I spend enough time complainin' about the Alliance already. It would be a waste of this occasion."

"Well, then what?" Inara sounds nothing less than exasperated at this point.

She doesn't understand what Mal could be thinking. Surely, he realizes that any attempts at intellectual conversation with her won't match up to what her usual customers have to say on those topics? They regularly entertain her with the latest in scientific advancements, their own interpretations of philosophy, religion, politics, linguistics… What could Mal, who lacks their level of education and worldly lifestyles, have to say to keep her engaged?

"Well, you could start by tellin' me some things about yourself," Mal suggests.

Inara just stares at him. As usual, her first instinct says he's joking, and warns her not to fall for it. But his expression is open and honest, as though he actually means it. Seriously? He actually wants to hear her talk about herself? She's not even sure what to say to that. The men she usually entertains are always more than willing to spend hours talking about themselves, their jobs, their fortunes, and she humors them. Few waste any time asking her questions about herself.

"What do you want to know?" she asks softly.

"Anything," he says. "Why did you choose your job? Did you always want to be a Companion? Tell me about Sihnon. Your life there. Your childhood."

She can't help bristling a little at his first two questions. "What do you want me to say, Mal? 'Yes, I decided when I was a little girl that I wanted to become a whore', as you so elegantly put it all the time?" As soon as the words leave her mouth, however, she realizes she's being impossible, and sighs. "Sorry. I'm sure you didn't mean in that way."

Mal shrugs, smiles, and pours her some wine—which throws her off even more, because that ought to be her role. She's the hostess. How does he always succeed in pushing her so far out of her comfort zone?

"I come from a good family. Not the highest class, but we never lacked anything." She sips at her wine as she speaks. "My parents paid for me to attend school with other wealthy children. I enjoyed learning. I enjoyed academia very much. I could picture myself becoming a scholar. I wanted to go to university, study history and the arts."

When she doesn't continue, Mal asks, "Why didn't you?"

She stares off into space, a wistful look pervading her features. "It seemed like it was all possible while my mother was still alive. But when she passed away, my father withdrew into himself. He lost interest in the family. All too soon, I caught wind of plans to marry me off as soon as I finished school, and thereby rid himself of his responsibility over me. There would be no university for me. So, I decided to enter Companion training myself. It seemed that was the only life I could choose in which I would retain my freedom."

Mal nods, taking a draught from his own wine goblet as he takes a seat on the sofa. "Would you ever want to go back there? Sihnon, I mean."

Following him to the sofa, Inara leaves some respectful distance between them as she slowly replies, "Well, if I were to die tomorrow, I would regret not having seen it one more time."

"…But?" Mal inquires. "You wouldn't go back there to live? If you were to settle down somewhere, where would you go?"

"I… don't know." She frowns as she mulls over the question. "Not Sihnon, no. Some quiet border planet, not too far from the Core." She scowls when Mal gives her a half-curious, half-disbelieving look. "I know you think I couldn't manage too long without civilization, but trust me, I could."

Mal grins. "I ain't doubtin' you would."

"What about you?" she asks as she refills their wine goblets. "Where would you settle down?"

"Don't think I ever will," Mal muses, "but if I were to… My grandfather used to live up in the mountains when he was still alive. On Shadow. I know people can't live there now, and I reckon I probably wouldn't go back even if I could. But I'd like to find a place like that, with mountains."

"This is good wine," he says as he takes another sip. "My grandfather used to have this old-fashioned hunting lodge up there. Built it himself with his father, back in the day, based off stories people told of Earth-That-Was. We used to go visit him, a few times a year. Those're some of my best memories. One winter, when I was maybe seven, eight, there was three feet of snow outside. I'd play outside until it got too cold, and then I'd run inside and roll on this big fur rug in front of his huge fireplace, playin' with the dogs, until I got warm again. I'd like to own a place just like that."

Inara feels overwhelmed with tenderness at the vivid imagery of the memory Mal chose to impart. For a second, she's at a loss for words.

"You should. I'd come visit." She smiles, then adds in a more quiet tone, "It sounds wonderful."

"I'll be sure to stoke up the fire nice and big for you. Your boots will be wet and your feet cold after the long walk up, so you can sit on my rug and warm them while I get you a drink. I can't promise I can get my hands on fancy wine as good as this, but I'll get you the best thing available. Maybe I'll start brewing my own ale. And don't mind the dogs. They'll jump at you 'cause they're curious, but they don't bite," Mal describes, a hint of playfulness in his words.

She laughs, a spontaneous sound bubbling up from deep in her belly that quickly stills when the images of she and Mal on a rug in front of a fireplace take hold. Despite years of training devoted entirely to learning how to control every aspect of her emotions, she can't help blushing a little. It's becoming harder and harder to look him in the eyes, and she catches herself staring at his lips instead.

Inara hadn't even noticed how close their faces had gotten. Somehow, the distance she had kept between them when she had taken her seat on the sofa had all but disappeared. Which of them had closed the gap? She almost doubts it could be Mal. He seems so calm and composed. Is her presence affecting him at all?

Suddenly, she's distracted from her thoughts by the lightest touch of his hands on her arms. Her skin tingles, sending a rush of adrenaline and other things coursing through her entire body.

And there it is: his lips on hers. Soft, chaste—more chaste than she desires, but it's his job to set the pace. If he wants to take it slow, he can. She uses the opportunity to take the time to explore the texture of his lips. Eyes lidded, she revels in the sensation of his breath on her own. But it's not enough. She needs to find a way to get closer. She would gladly throw her arms around his neck if he wasn't holding her arms pinned.

Then, two things happen simultaneously: his mouth opens enough for her to attempt to push a little bit of tongue inside, and the pressure on her arms is gone. When she realizes his mouth is no longer covering hers, she opens her eyes and looks up in confusion to find Mal already standing up and moving away from her.

"I had better be goin'. I really enjoyed our conversation. Let's do it again sometime," he announces, and before she can stop him, he's disappeared through the door.

On instinct, she rises to stop him, making a dash for the shuttle's entryway, but in the end, she decides not to move through it. It would be humiliating both for him and for herself—and besides, he was her customer. It was his prerogative all along to leave and end the session whenever he wished.

Closing the door and then slumping against it, she's not sure whether to laugh or cry.

"该死!" she whispers as she bangs a fist against the metal door. "Damn him!"

**THE END**

* * *

**OMAKE**

"So, how'd it go, Cap'n?" Kaylee asks when Mal returns to the bridge, literally bouncing up and down with excitement.

"Well, I think," Mal answers, turning his attention away from his expectant-looking crewmembers and focusing instead on some of the screens and dials in front of him.

Chewing on some jerky, Jayne saunters over and nudges Mal's side with his elbow. "So, what all did ya' two, you know…?"

"Nothing in particular," Mal replies, aiming for shock value, since Jayne wasn't there when Zoe and Kaylee decided to coach him on how to approach this particular situation and therefore hadn't heard about the plan. He looks up at Jayne and smiles as he adds, "We just had a good conversation."

Jayne gives him a dumbfounded look, a chunk of jerky escaping his teeth mid-chew and falling to the floor. Then the big man shrugs, mumbles something about "It's your money", and frowns as he ambles off, already losing interest in the situation.

"How did she react, sir?" Zoe asks. "Was she angry? Confused?"

"I reckon she was a bit confused. I shook her up a bit. She'll be all right," Mal explains, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

Zoe smiles. "Understood. Keep up the good work, sir. It's hard work to properly woo a woman, but this way you'll win her over for sure."

Remembering the heat coursing through his veins and the uncomfortable straining against the front of his pants when he finally got to touch her, Mal murmurs, "I really hope you two are right."


End file.
